‘Hello, Lana.’
‘Hi,’ she says. Her voice sounds small. Like a child that has been told to greet an adult. Perhaps, he has not heard her sell herself, after all.
He puts his hand out, and after a perceptible hesitation, she puts hers into it. His hands are large and warm, and his clasp firm and safe, but she snatches hers away as if burnt.
He breaks his gaze briefly to glance at Rupert. ‘There is a party tonight at Lord Jakie’s.’ Then those darkly fringed eyes return to her. Inscrutable as ever. ‘Would you like to come as my guests?’ His voice is an intriguing combination of velvet and husk. It is as if he is addressing only her. It sends delicious shivers up and down her spine. Confused, by the unfamiliar sensations she tears her eyes away from him and looks at Rupert.
Rupert’s eyebrows are almost in his hairline. ‘Lord Jakie?’ he repeats. There is unconcealed delight in his face.
He seems a man who has found a bottle of rare wine in his own humble cellar. ‘That’s terribly kind of you, Mr.
Barrington. Terribly kind. Of course, we’d love to,’ he accepts quickly for both of them.
‘Good. I’ll leave your names at the door. See you there.’ He nods at Lana and she registers the impression that he is obsessively clean and controlled. There is no mess in this man’s life. A place for everything and everything in its place. Then he is gone. Rupert and she watch him walk away. He has the walk of a supremely confident man.
Rupert turns to face her again; his face is mean and at odds to his words. ‘Well, well,’ he drawls, ‘You must be my lucky charm.’
‘Why?’
‘First, I get the deal I’ve been after for the last year and a half, then the great man not only deigns to speak to me, but invites me to a party thrown by the crème de la crème of high society.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He, my dear, is the next generation of arguably the richest family in the world.’
‘The Barringtons,’ Lana whispers, shocked.
‘He even smells of old money and establishment, doesn’t he?’ Rupert says, and neighs loudly at his own joke. Rupert himself smells like grated lemon peel. The citrusy scent reminds her of Fairy washing up liquid.
A waiter appears to ask what they would like to drink.
‘We’ll have your finest house champagne,’ Rupert booms. He winks at Lana. ‘We’re celebrating.’
A bottle and ice bucket arrive with flourish. The only time she has drunk champagne before is when Billie and she dressed up and presented themselves as bride and bridesmaid to be, at the Ritz, and pretended Lana was about to drop forty thousand pounds into their coffers by cutting her wedding cake there. They quaffed half a bottle of champagne and a whole tray of canapés while being shown around the different function rooms. Afterwards, Billie thanked them nicely and said they would be in touch. How they had laughed on the bus journey back.
Lana watches as the waiter expertly extracts the cork. It leaves the bottle with a quiet hiss. Another waiter in a black jacket reels off the specials for the night and asks them if they are ready to order.
Rupert looks at her. The beef on the bone here is very good.’
‘I guess I’ll just have whatever you’re having.’
‘I’m actually having steak tartare.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
He looks at the waiter. ‘A dozen oysters to start then steak tartare and side orders of vegetables and mashed potatoes.’
‘I’m not really hungry. No starter for me,’ she says quickly.
When the waiter is gone, he raises his glass. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ she repeats softly. It sticks in her throat.
She takes a small sip and tastes nothing. She puts the glass on the table and looks at her hands.
‘You have very beautiful skin. It was the first thing I noticed about you. Does it…mark very easily?’
‘Yes,’ she admits warily.
‘I knew it,’ he boasts with a sniff. ‘I am a connoisseur of skin. I love the taste and the touch of skin. I can already imagine the taste of yours. A skin of wine.’ He eyes her over the rim of his glass. She has tried her best not to look at the dandruff flakes that liberally dust the shoulders of his pin-striped suit, but with that last remark he has tossed his head and a flurry of motes have floated off his head and fallen onto the pristine tablecloth. Her eyes have helplessly followed their progress. She looks up to find him looking at her speculatively.
‘What will I be getting for my money?’
Lana blinks. It is all wrong. She shouldn’t be here. In this dress, or shoes, sitting in front of this obscene piece of filth hiding behind his handmade shirt, gold cufflinks and plummy, upper class accent. This man degrades and c 1 d